by Jenna Payne
Now three years after that night at Gagosian I stand in a small feminist gallery in Downtown Culver City that doesn’t even have a name. I’m staring at Deviled Legs, slack jawed, with yet another glass of brandy in my hand. The curator of this quaint exhibit is a five foot three blonde with coke-can thick glasses. She might actually be cute for a wannabe Los Angeles Millennial if she applied some make-up and tried to perk up her breasts.
However, I’m not here to judge the help. I’m here because I am literally baffled at how this dump of a gallery could have possibly acquired an original Lora Zombie. I’ve been staring at Deviled Legs so closely; trying to figure out of it is a potential replica or rip-off before I steal it.
I’ve tried paying fair price for art enough times to know that when something is priceless no amount can really suffice. Needless to say, collecting fine art is not so much a hobby for me as much as it is an addiction. With this opening more popular than some major gallery openings I’ve been too, I’m still the only moderately dressed person in the whole place. Hipsters surround me, young pseudo-intellectuals who think they understand art, but really only wish they did.
“You seem to really love this one,” a female voice says. I can’t help but raise my nose before even laying eyes on the speaker. Before listening to this woman, I down the last of the brandy and slow turn to my left. Surprisingly, it’s the petite curator, looking up at me and nudging the loose spectacles closer to her forehead.
“Lora Zombie is one of my all time favorites,” she says, unable to pull her gaze away from my face. I am the type of man that exudes wealth, glamor, and sex. I know this because I’ve heard it from women all over the world, and these traits have been my sole objectives for my entire life.
“You have great taste,” I say. Even though this little socialite doesn’t stand the slightest chance with me, I can at least slightly respect someone who shares my appreciation for good art.
“Apparently you do, too,” she says. For a moment we both stare at Deviled Legs in awe. There is only one other person on Earth I know who would look at a Lora Zombie painting for its simple beauty and complexity—and that is individual just happens to be the one person on Earth who has tried to ruin me in business. If there is one thing about being Amos Torrany, it’s that being me comes with many enemies.
“I happen to be quite infatuated with Lora Zombie’s work,” I say, smiling. “I have a deep, personal relationship with this particular painting.”
“Deviled Legs is most certainly a rare piece,” she says. I can tell she is entering curator mode and I already get the urge to zone out. However, as her voice picks up I see her own confidence begin to shine.
Maybe I was wrong about the coke-can glasses and breasts in need of perking. Her posture and tone has changed entirely. She’s a quiet talker, but now that I’m in her zone I can’t get her voice out of my head. “With one part of the mind focused on the grotesque, and other part of the mind consumed with beauty, her work exudes a confusion in our social consciousness and, in many ways, the a fractured interpretation of sexuality.”
Who is this bespectacled woman and how have I only just discovered her?
“What do they call you?” I ask. “You must have a very ordinary name.”
“My name is Carly,” she says. “Sounds ordinary to the untrained ear. Kind of like good music, or true art. Don’t you think?”
So coy. I now see her lack of make-up as a choice—not a matter of cosmetic negligence. With a closer look at her face, I admit to being completely wrong about my initial perception of her. I saw a desperate, nerdy type—but actually she is beautiful.
*****
Nick
I wasn’t born into money like some people in this world. Everything I have I earned with hard work, blood, and my wits. I wasn’t always a thief or a criminal. Hell, currently the public wouldn’t even guess the true nature of my business. Growing up in Detroit, Michigan taught me a few things about living hand to mouth. I graduated Magna Cum Laude on the school of Detroit Streets.
One of the most important lessons I ever learned was when I was standing outside the bus station in the snow with no money for the bus. There I was, this 14-year-old kid trying to leave town, begging every person who walked by for some spare change or help with a ticket. You know what they all said to me? Get lost, kid. Go home. You’re going to freeze to death out here.
That night I really did damn near turn into a popsicle, until I saw this poor sap fall asleep on a bench inside. When I knew he was good and dreaming I snuck up on him so quiet, reached my hand into his overcoat, and lifted his wallet. I didn’t buy a bus ticket that day. Instead I took a cab home, went to my cousin Jesse’s convenience store, and loaded up on cartons of cigarettes and cases of beer.
That one decision to take the bastard’s wallet has proven to be the single smartest decision of my entire life. Never in my life have I smoked a cigarette, and if I’m drinking alcohol, it’s aged scotch, not some cheap ass frat boy beer. No, what I did was get the merchandise of Jesse for cheap and then flipped the goods around town for twice the price.
That winter I made just over five grand slinging smokes and booze to the neighborhood kids who couldn’t get the stuff for parties on account of their age. Long story short, I came up in Detroit with an advantage. Everything I wanted from that point on was within arm’s reach.
Eventually I did get the hell out of Detroit and the first city I moved to was Chicago. For me, thriving in the dead of winter is how I’ve always out survived my enemies and competitors. Any hustler or dealer can get caught up in the big bucks and blow their entire load on summer investments. Not me. Any fool will tell you that the squirrel that prepares for winter will survive the year without a splinter.
It didn’t take long in Chicago to triple my earnings, on top of accessibility to mass shipments of good throughout Illinois through the hub of the metro. I’ve never been the type of man to mess with drugs. You won’t catch me pushing dope on anyone. The worst I’ve ever done is the cigarettes and beer. After that it became electronics, computers, hardware, software, digital information, identities, and the list goes on.
However, I left Chicago because I began to feel like the big fish in a small pond. The same thing happened to me in Detroit. Before long my own identity was no longer safe because the individuals in the city who were up to the real, hard crime came looking for me. My wealth has never been a secret. So, I decided to give up my security in the winter and go to the last place anyone would expect me.
California wasn’t my first choice. I actually wanted to move to Brazil. However, at the time it was impossible for me to get a passport because this son of a bitch Amos Tammory managed to get me on the No Fly list. That’s a story for another time.
Here I am in Los Angeles, staring over the ocean wearing the most cliché floral button-down and khakis with aviator glasses. The salty breeze makes me feel new. For dealing in importing and exporting, one might assume that I’ve done a fair share of traveling. But the truth is that this is the first time I’ve ever stood next to the ocean.
I even take off my cheap sandals so that I can dig my toes into the hot sand. I’m waiting for a special delivery here in Malibu. Any minute I expect a man driving a white van to pull up next to my black Jeep, idle for approximately five minutes before stepping out of the van with the keys still inside, stepping into my Jeep where the keys are still inside, and driving off. From there, I will wait for seven minutes until the sun fully sets, enter the van, and drive away.
In the back of the van is an object of great rarity and uniqueness. I collect such treasures. I find that doing so makes life sweeter and worth living. I have one of the greatest collections of rare items in the world. I am also a wanted man in twelve states, and on the no-fly list, and I once came close to ruin, and intend to kill the man who brought me there. Firearms have never been a problem for me to secure, naturally.
The white van arrives. I see it pulling off road and toward me, int
o the sand at this very moment. The driver dims the van’s headlights and rolls slowly over the bumpy dunes toward me and the Jeep.
The van parks next to the jeep and I turn my gaze back toward the ocean so that I can catch all the oranges, crimsons, and violets as they fade into navy blue then black over the Santa Monica Mountains. I listen carefully for the actions behind me—the shutting of a door too early, or perhaps even the cocking of a pistol. I can’t be too cautious because if the driver wanted me dead, he could do it no question. There ain’t nobody coming to look for me, dead or alive.
I didn’t bother coming armed, because flipping art is such a delicate process that weapons are actually counter productive. The piece that I am currently in the process of acquiring belongs to one of the most promising feminist artists of the world—Lora Zombie. Within the van are numerous pieces of mildly rare art—nothing that would sell for two commas, but that’s not the point. The Zombie piece that I’m after is certainly in the six zeroes bracket; the other pieces are just to mask the one valuable work of art so that in the event the van actually does get inspected, it will seem like I’m just hauling a load to a gallery. If the dumbass in the driver’s seat followed directions then the Zombie piece should actually be under the floor board of the back of the van, hidden within the infrastructure of the vehicle.
At last, longer than five minutes by my count, the door of the white van opens and clicks closed. I hear the driver get into the jeep and start the ignition. I see the glare of the headlights slightly illuminate the night sky before he quickly shuts them off to resume the blackout. The Jeep rolls backward over the dunes and the driver continues the route he was on before he pulled over into the sand. I hear traffic from the road a few yards away and wait until the noise around me returns to static silence before making my way for the van.
*****
Carly
With the last of the stragglers in the gallery finishing off the free wine, the only person making me nervous is the man whom I spoke to earlier, the one who hasn’t budged from Deviled Legs. I went over to him to speak with him and be polite, but honestly I was trying to get him to move from the spot. Frankly, the Lora Zombie piece is the highlight of the exhibit and the reason why most people came to my hole-in-the-wall gallery in the first place. Apparently I’m too shy to be blunt, even when I’m running the show, because I didn’t have the courage to tell the man the other people were waiting to get a glimpse of Deviled Legs but were too afraid by his money stink.
Either he is totally oblivious to the snide comments the gallery-goers have made about him behind his back, or he simply doesn’t care one way or the other. Typical Los Angeles type. I’ve been here for less than a year and already and I can hardly tolerate these people with such a strong sense of entitlement they have no common courtesy because they think they own the place. It wasn’t like this in Cleveland, or any other Midwestern city that I’ve lived in.
“Well, sir, that’s the last of the attendants,” I say in my most professional tone. “It’s been a long day for me. I should probably close up here.”
“You won’t take any money for this picture, will you?” he asks, refusing to turn to face me.
“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, tilting my head as if I could magically become Deviled Legs so he would stare at me instead.
“Is this painting is for sale?” he asks. I have to think about his question for a moment before answering. Part of me should have expected him to come throwing dollar signs around at me. I love art, but have never been in it for the business. It’s no lie. All my life people have told me I’ve been horrible with money.
“Well, what is your price?” I ask, as if the picture is not for sale at all unless he makes a grand gesture.
“I once offered a hundred thousand for this same painting,” he says, slowly turning around, placing his back to Deviled Legs at last. However, he has not turned because he wants to show respect for me. He has turned around because already in his mind he thinks that he owns the painting. “How about double that?”
“Wow,” I say, proud that money doesn’t affect me. “That is a lot. Unfortunately, you were correct, sir. That particular piece is not for sale.” It’s true. I don’t want to sell this one just yet.
He extends his right hand for a formal shake and says, “Please, Carly. Call me Amos.” I hesitantly reach my hand out to meet his and take the firm grip into my delicate, fragile one. Any time I shake hands with a man I get self-conscious about my long fingers. They’re too long for a woman, but have helped give my own art a specific style. I haven’t found my true voice yet, but I can only aspire to one day be as great as Lora Zombie.
“Just as I thought,” he smirks. After looking from his hand up to his face I’m suddenly trapped in the gleam of his sky blue eyes. His dark brown hair is slicked back like a living James Dean, only crossed with Ryan Gosling and Adrian Brody.
Art isn’t the only reason I moved to Los Angeles, after all. I know a thing or two about the beauty and power that come with men in this city.
“If there is anything I can do to change your mind,” he says, releasing my hand and reaching into his jacket, “please do not hesitate to call or text.”
With his chalk white and blue trimmed business card held out to me between his index and middle finger, I retrieve it from him as if it is a piece of trash he’s asked me to throw away. I’m not your Coffee Bean drive-thru attendee, here, buddy, I think. “Thank you, Mr….” I say, searching for the last name on the card, “Toranny. I’ll keep that in mind. The piece will most likely remain off the market.” I smile, enjoying having the upper hand. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Toranny, I really must be closing up. Good bye.”
He leans his head back with his mouth hanging slightly open. “I must say, Carly, I took you for a completely different woman when I first laid eyes on you. Thank you for your time this evening. It was a pleasure.” He buttons his jacket and hands me his empty brandy glass before heading for the exit. The soles of his shoes clap against the concrete floor now that there are no other sounds to mask his movement.
Holding the empty glass in my hand, I look down and see marks from his lips left on the rim. For some reason part of me wants to place my own lips over the exact same spot. A split second later I feel as though I’m going to throw up in my mouth.
Once the doors are locked and I’m safe and secure inside the gallery, I close the curtains so that nobody from the street can peer in at me. I take a deep breath and have a seat in my favorite purple chair in the gallery. It’s so fat and cushiony I always feel like I’m being swallowed when I sit down. With a clean glass and half a bottle of brandy left, I pour myself enough to take the edge off of the stress from the opening.
I set the bottle on the ground, bring the glass to my nose, and sniff its intoxicating aroma. Once the liquid hits my lips I am already feel the buzz coming on. I’m such a lightweight. Maybe it’s just the fact that my nerves are through the roof. I might not show it, but putting this gallery together in Los Angeles has been my dream since I was 15. I was fortunate growing up in Cleveland because, for a city in Ohio, it actually had a small art scene. I studied at the Ohio State University, where I first majored in English until I realized that the only thing I could do with my life was follow art. I immediately switched my field of study and double-majored in art and art history. After the first semester, I didn’t think I could hack it as an actual artist and made art a minor. So, here I am, a degree in art history and virtually nothing to show for it except for a minimal storefront between a deli and an adult bookstore that I spent months refurbishing to pass as a gallery.
Was it worth it in the end? I still am not sure at this point. What I do know is that I put my life savings and more into this place, and most of the night I felt like people walked in off the street out of pity. It was impossible for me to do any press or marketing because my last dime went into clearing walls for the art space. I don’t even want to
get into the fact that I’ve been sleeping on the floor here illegally for weeks because I can’t afford an apartment until the gallery pays off.
With a full gulp of brandy I catch glimpse Lora Zombie’s Deviled Legs and find myself standing up, as if in a trance, to its purple texture, the legs that seem to break the fourth wall of the canvas. I once offered a hundred thousand for this same painting. How about double that? I can’t get Amos Toranny’s astronomical offer out of my head. If I had said yes then all of my troubles would literally wash away. A clean slate. I played dumb in the moment, but I have already weighed approximately how much I would have to pay in taxes in order to consider the sale as freelance work. When it comes to money, I’m no dummy. I may not have any but that never stopped me planning what would be the responsible way to handle it once I did.
Still. Two hundred thousand.
*****
Amos
After visiting one of my curator friends who works at The Getty, I sit on the terrace at the museum smoking a Djarum clove cigarette even though smoking is prohibited here. With the ocean in front of me it is kind of hard not fight the desire to breathe fire.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Amos?” his voice beckons from behind me. I turn around and see Bertrand in his black and navy suit walking toward me with two ice coffees. “If I get another complaint from a French family that they should be allowed to smoke if you are, then I’m banning you for life.”
“You would never do such a thing, Bert,” I say, snuffing the clove cigarette out on the sole of my boot.
“Don’t tempt me with a good time,” he laughs in his haughty English accent. I can barely look at his crooked, gangly smile for more than a few minutes at a time. “I’ve got fifteen minutes and a bowl of soup I need to drink yet, so I’m going to speak rather quickly.”